For all of Manmarziyan’s feminist pretensions, its lead Rumi is a cipher, waiting for validation from the men in her life. Where are the fun, confused young women who end up by themselves and become stronger because of it? Where are the women who bid their orthodoxies goodbye and try to fly solo?
Polyamory has become the new kale juice – everyone’s had a taste of it. And just like kale juice, not everyone has a taste for it. My version of polyamory helped me discover the toxic side of monogamy, where jealousy and possessiveness are allegedly signs of true love.
In the age of dating apps, millennials now face the ageless conundrum of settling down, served with a technological update. Earlier, we used to chase the elusive idea of “The One” but now, we’re ambassadors of the adage “the more, the merrier”.
Back in 2012, Tinder came into our lives like the cool NRI cousin we all wanted to get with, certain that their arrival heralded numerous gifts. Six years on, the dating app has made its way to the dustbin. Over time, its vanilla-ness became glaringly apparent.
Urban Dictionary defines flirting as “you dinking around with the opposite sex”, but for clueless Indian bros, the definition seemingly transcends to “block-worthy behaviour that will elicit at least five eye-rolls”.
Like everyone else, I grew up watching films, reading books, and listening to stories that eulogised the “spark”, the firsts of love. “First meeting”, “first eye-contact”, “first kiss” and so on. How often to we give up on relationships because the elusive spark seems to be missing?
I’ve never had a single sour experience on Tinder. Contrary to the shallow connections that the app is known for, I’ve managed to hone relationships that are meaningful.